HD 'Theorem Arc Pressure Equation No 3'
by tigersilver
Summary: Draco is blinded by science.


Theorem Arc

P=F/A

[Pressure]

There was something in Harry that always wanted to _give_. No matter what the cost, no matter how difficult it would make his life later. It was so deeply intertwined with his character that he'd come to understand that it _was_ his character: there was no way to deny all of himself, even if he ought to be far more focused than your average wizard on self-preservation, even if he did actively invite damage far more often than his closest friends could stand.

That was why Hermione fretted. That was why Ron spent much of his time looming threateningly as soon as he was tall enough to do so. That was why Sirius—

Well. Yes. Being a fool with his heart on his sleeve was a dangerous thing for any respectable Saviour, both to himself and others, too. Thank Merlin for Snape and Malfoy and Slytherins in general. Thank his stars [fortunately or unfortunately aligned] for Skeeter and Umbridge and Quirrel and Voldemort [ew!], or he'd have been an absolute goner the moment Malfoy really got his claws into him, two years ago.

Um, seven. Nearly eight, maybe, if one counted Madame Malkin's. Probably Malfoy did, fucking romantic ponce that he was.

As it was, he was only barely holding on and if ever a sneering Malfoy backed off enough to examine him critically, even that small dignity would crumble pathetically. Sad to admit that the Boy Who Survived relied on other people's blindness to guise his own frailty. If Voldemort had ever twigged on that, Harry would've only Lived the once.

Now, for instance, was a wonderful demonstration of this very conundrum: Draco sticking to him, mouth agape, eyes burning with a fever that matched Harry's own – not seeing, not seeing – his pink-and-white cock so hard it would take no effort whatsoever on Harry's part to have Draco on his back or on his knees, whichever Harry preferred. A forefinger to the shoulder, just here, and Malfoy would be shoving his ass in the air, cursing and begging. A palm down a hip bone, there, and it would be Harry biting the pillow, squirming loudly under Draco's ineffably knowing tongue.

So Harry, being a natural-born giver, decided that it was the best part of giving to take Draco first. Oh, he'd given Malfoy a choice, or lip service at least, but he knew the git was too far gone in LaLa Land to actually think about his question and reply responsibly. It was up to him, really, to make the decision, and his decision was to make the tension in Draco's shoulders go away – erase the niggle of fear that dwelled far back in those silvery-grey eyes, kiss away the lingering bitterness in Malfoy's desperate kisses and the wobble of latent despair from his knees. Give Draco back a little of Harry's own assurance, an injection of his own dyed-in deep belief. In the form of purest magical protein, of course. With force.

Because they were good together, that's why, Harry thought, shoving hard against Malfoy's shoulder, watching him scramble, all elbows and knees and wild eyes. Because it was _right_ in a certain fundamental way that no one dared actually deny, Harry asserted thoughtfully, tight-clenched jaw gripping the softness of Malfoy's nape hard enough to bring the slinky git ramping willingly under him, spine bent, ass cheeks spread, whimpering already with raw need.

"—ry!"

Malfoy was mess, really; damp and sticky and well on his way to cumming even before Harry truly touched him, the hint of weak tears reddening his luxuriantly pale-lashed eyes.

Hmm. Brilliant. Erm, excellent, yes. Because there was Love here, Harry was positive, with a capital 'L', determinedly licking his way down the line of the tosser's delightfully elegant spine, sending Draco's satin-skin clad nerves twitching uncontrollably when Harry's tongue found and fondled tight, heavy balls covered with the downiest of pale furs. When he moved on to nibble the crease of Draco's creamy thigh, the gormless git nearly fell off his own knobby knees, he was so overcome. Harry had to spare an arm to wrap tight around the slim waist of his ex-foe, holding him firmly in place for the merciless drubbing that was to come. His whispered words took care of lube and reasonable safe-sex precautions – not that Malfoy would ever let _anyone _other than Harry touch him and Harry knew that as well as he knew his own name - and a quick grope with two saliva-damp fingers had Draco stretched and gasping incoherently of his submittal and his desire and—'_umph!_ ' _Then_ Harry was inching into heaven; then shoving in, barreling full-tilt down the tight, dark, musky Tunnel of Love.

Malfoy _needed _this so fucking bad. Harry was sure of it, had been convinced of it from the night before the final battle, when Malfoy couldn't stop touching him, couldn't stop glancing, couldn't shove his soul-deep fear far back enough for Harry to somehow manage to 'not see it' again. Voldemort had lost his slight advantage then and there: he didn't have what Potter had, never would. He wasn't 'precious' or 'wanted' or 'to die for', like Harry was. He was merely what had been Tom Riddle, and Tom Riddle really wasn't very much at all.

Which wasn't to say he'd rushed right back to Draco when it was over and asked to Bond with him on bended knee; oh, no, not at all. He _had_ found his way to the Malfoy family's subtly apart little corner of the Great Hall eventually, hours and hours into the aftermath, shell-shocked, smoke-tinged, utterly exhausted and still smeared with the blood of 'friend' and 'enemy' and 'bystander' and he _had_ done what he desperately needed to do right then: curl up limply in the loose circle of Draco's arms and knees, relishing the startled gape on the pointy git's deathly pale, bruised face, the sharply indrawn breaths of the Malfoys Senior, the silent tidal wave of Utter Disbelief that rolled from everywhere in the echoing room after Harry Potter had done such a Very Shocking Thing. If 'Mione had been in any condition to comment, she would've screeched her ass off with laughter at people's expressions, but—

They'd shagged once that night, before parting – even _more_ hours later, when Lucius and Narcissa had finally slept, exhausted, and dawn was but a whisper away - in an abandoned classroom, hastily, silently except for the gasping reaffirmations of Life, and then the Malfoys had been escorted promptly off to their Ministry holding cell by grim-faced Aurors. And Harry had gotten back to work.

Lots to do. One would think there'd of been a break of some sort, but no. Not for Harry Potter. There was rebuilding and the Trials and Sorting and shit. No time to snag Draco for a relaxing rogering and of course the toffee-nosed fuckwit hadn't the balls to drop by.

Pity about Lucius. Harry never thought he'd think that, but it mattered to Draco, so it mattered to him. Grunting, he put more effort into hammering his trembling partner into a ball of soggy mush, ramming in so hard Draco's tonsils rattled; drawing out, smooth and fast and nerve-rending. Draco was wordless with appreciation, face flushed, and so tight. Time and distraction, Harry was certain – they both needed that, now. He'd make sure they got it, somehow.

He put his hand on Draco's cock finally, having teased him long enough, skittering fingernails over ribcage and nipples and navel. Draco moaned and screwed himself as tight as he could to Harry's hips with every burgeoning thrust, rocking wantonly between Harry's lube-slick palm and Harry's cradling pelvis.

"Ah-ah-_ah_!_ Oooooh_…"

Harry loved that particular sound – the sound of Malfoy falling apart. He grasped one sweat-slick thigh hard enough to leave purply-red bruises later and held Malfoy in place with gryphon talons, slamming now with the intent to do damage – nail the blue-blooded bastard but good, so that nancy-boy Malfoy here would never, _ever _forget this moment—give it up, deny it or mock.

So that Draco would always be _his_.

"Mine!" he growled at Draco, and the skinny shit bowed his white-gold halo immediately and moaned "Yes!"

"MINE!" Harry bellowed, feeling it gathering in his balls and his cock, and Draco went utterly still beneath him, happily taking every steaming gob of sperm and lust and love Harry had stored up right up his gagging-for-it ass, straight through the conduit that led to his yearning heart. Draco's own joyous cum laced the pillows in response, spewing the sheets punctured and tangled by manicured claws and perfect teeth, pumped in throbbing spurts to decorate the carved wooden headboard, the dingily carpeted floor. Harry saw none of that – eyes closed, _blind_ – but he could feel it, shuddering around him, absorbing him, taking him in.

"Ye—ssss….!"

*

It was all Draco could do to wheeze his reply audibly, and he wasn't sure if Harry heard him, or if it mattered all that much if he hadn't. It was truth. Bare and unvarnished and painfully obvious. Potter would notice, soon enough. Probably in about twenty minutes, he guessed, which was when Draco was planning on being fully recovered so he could fuck Potty-head into bleeding Nirvana and never let him come back.


End file.
